Unleashed

by McClellan, Rachel

  Before his father could scold him, Albert quickly said, “Can you punish me another way?”

  His father’s gaze moved to a set of paddles hanging on a mirror. “You will receive both punishments for questioning me. I’ll be back in one hour.”

  The door closed.

  Albert cursed and smashed his fist repeatedly into a pillow. Months ago, he had stopped trying to convince his parents that he would never become like his brother. They never believed him then, and they weren’t about to now. In their minds, the family name would never be tarnished again, and they saw to this by imposing crazy rules and punishments upon him.

  Clenching his jaw, he squished beneath his bed and scooted to the back corner. There was no reason for him to feel like this. Not anymore. He curled his fingers around the edge of the carpet and pulled back, exposing a wooden floor. After removing the nearest board, he peered in and stared at the glass vials.

  He’d promised himself that he would throw them away after what had happened with Mindy, but now he was glad he hadn’t. He reached in and took hold of the nearest tube. Just touching the cool glass relaxed him, and he inhaled deeply.

  Wriggling back out from under the bed, he sat on the floor and studied the clear liquid. He remembered the day he’d stolen it. His father had taken him to work late at night to retrieve paperwork he said he’d forgotten. Because his dad’s buddy was working security, he let him take Albert into an area normally forbidden to outsiders.

  While there, he overheard his dad and the guard talking about Bodian Dynamics’ latest project for some huge corporation. Their scientists were developing a drug to make soldiers, not only fearless in battle, but stronger, too. His father pointed out the concoction on the other side of the lab, admiring its application. “If this works,” he’d heard his dad say, “then someone’s going to have one hell of an army. Finally the world will have some real men in it.”

  As soon as his father left, Albert entered the sterile room and took as many vials as his coat pockets could handle. His father didn’t notice anything amiss when he returned, but if he had looked closely, he would’ve noticed sweat dripping from Albert’s forehead.

  Albert couldn’t explain why he’d done it. Maybe he was tired of pretending to be someone else, to both his parents and his friends. Or maybe he just wanted to prove to himself that he was worth something.

  Holding the glass to the light, he stared at the vial, unable to comprehend how such a small amount could make him feel so incredible. He pulled a black plug from off its top. Just a few drops, he thought. Just enough to numb the pain.

  He took a small gulp then quickly plugged it again. A sharp, searing heat ignited his insides, but within a few ragged breaths, he felt better. He stared at his reflection, waiting to see if his appearance would change. Luckily it didn’t. Maybe he’d have to drink all of it for that to happen.

  He kicked off his shoes and collapsed backwards into bed, hands behind his head, and thought of Claire.

  Sometime later, a brief moment of terror sliced through his calmness when he heard the squeaking of wheels rolling on the wooden floor outside his room. One rotation after another, the squealing sound turned the room cold and the air foul, but Albert’s fear was quickly muffled by the pleasant euphoric sensation of the Bodian concoction.

  Like he’d promised, Albert’s father arrived one hour later. He opened the door, pulling a small, familiar cart behind him. On it was a fully charged, industrial-sized battery, a single green light blinking on its top next to a red button.

  His father didn’t look at Albert as he removed the paddles from the hook on the mirror, mindful to keep the long cord between them from tangling. He found the end and plugged it into the battery, then reached into his pocket for a small bottle.

  “You know what to do,” he said.

  Albert took the bottle from him and calmly squeezed gel onto the electrode paddles that his father held in each hand. This sure is a lot easier than all the other times. Albert almost laughed at how afraid he used to be of this whole process.

  After his father attached the paddles to each side of Albert’s head, he said, “Put in your mouthpiece.”

  Albert reached for the chewed-up, blue mouthpiece on his nightstand. Anyone else might think he was a serious football player if they saw it and never guess what it actually was—the only thing that prevented his teeth from breaking when his father shocked him. His mother was convinced this sort of treatment would curve any deviant behavior and probably would’ve saved his brother had they used it. “I’ve felt your pain,” she’d told him once. “Shocking treatments were the only thing that stopped me from hurting you or your brother when you were babies.”

  As soon as the mouthpiece was in his mouth, his father bent down, his blue eyes level with Albert’s. “When this is finished and you wake up, you are to stay in your room the rest of the night. No dinner.”

  Albert shrugged like it was no big deal. He really didn’t care. He felt great.

  The briefest of shadows crossed his father’s face, and Albert swore he had almost smiled, but then his father straightened and walked back to the box. He glanced at Albert one last time, his finger hovering just above the red button.

  And then he pushed it.

  A jolt of electricity shot through Albert, sending his arms and legs into the air, shaking violently. Searing pain raced from the top of his head all the way to his toes until he fell over backwards, his body contorting in ways that would leave him sore for days after.

  But not this time.

  Albert kept his eyes closed to give the illusion of being unconscious, the typical response from being shocked, but as soon as his father closed the door, taking with him the squeaking cart, Albert sat up and stretched his limbs. The pain had been great in the moment, but was gone only a second after. A wonderful response.

  He turned to the clock on his nightstand. By seven his mother would be in bed reading and his dad holed up in the office working on who knew what. They wouldn’t check on him or say goodnight; they never did. Only one more hour and then he was out of here, school night or not.

  To pass the time, he thought about doing his homework, but his body was too much of a mess, pulsing with energy. He paced the room, tugging at his hair, until he dropped to the ground and pumped out one hundred push-ups in less than a minute. Then he started the process all over again.

  Seven fifteen arrived just in time. A second longer and he would’ve smashed all the mirrors in the room. Albert pressed his ear to the door and listened closely to the sounds in the home. All was quiet.

  It took a little effort, but he managed to slide open the window silently. He swung his legs over the windowsill and climbed to the roof by way of a nearby rain gutter. It wasn’t the safest route, but it beat jumping to the ground and into prickly rose bushes, strategically placed by his parents.

  Once on the roof, he snuck to the other side and jumped into a nearby tree not far from his parents’ window. A risky move, but it was worth it. There was someone he wanted to see.

  FIVE

  Claire pulled up to the local mini-mart about 8:30 p.m. The brakes on her mother’s old van screeched to a halt, and she jammed the shifter into park, cursing it and everything else. There was no food in her house and before her mom had crashed onto the couch, she’d tossed her the keys to her van and a fifty-dollar bill. “Make sure you get Oreo’s,” her mother had said after clicking on the television.

  Claire did as she asked, but only because she was starving. She and her mother rarely got along; they were more like roommates than anything else. Claire just couldn’t relate to her. Her mother didn’t know how to fight life, only accept whatever was thrown at her as if she had no other choice.

  Stepping out of the van, she closed the door and glanced around. A few tourists still walked up and down the boardwalk, looking for open souvenir shops. A lot of the locals didn’t like the tourists, but she did. They made Bandon grow and without them, their town would be st
uck in a provincial bubble.

  She went to the front door of the grocery store and, using the sleeve of her jacket, reached to open the glass door, but stopped when the reflection of someone standing across the street caught her eye. She turned around. Between a restaurant and a t-shirt shop stood a boy wearing a black Bandon High sweatshirt, hands stuffed in his pockets. A hood shadowed all but his lips.

  She waved, assuming she knew him if he was from Bandon (their high school wasn’t that big), but he didn’t move, didn’t even shift his weight. His odd stillness gave her the creeps, so she quickly turned back around and ducked inside the store.

  It didn’t take long to get the groceries she needed. Most of the food was meals she could heat up in the microwave, along with the ingredients for chocolate chip cookies, her favorite. At the last second she remembered the Oreo’s and paid for the items.

  Arms loaded with grocery bags, Claire walked out into the parking lot. She glanced across the street—stare-hard was gone. Good.

  She slid open the side door of the van, set the groceries inside, then closed the door. When Claire turned around, she caught sight of the sea. The sun had just begun to set, spreading its rays across the ocean like thick honey. She loved this time of day and seriously considered walking down to the beach to enjoy the last of the daylight.

  Just then she heard the sound of a motorcycle cruising down the road. It pulled into the parking lot and stopped next to her. The driver removed his helmet and turned toward her. She smiled.

  “How’s it going?” Logan asked. He smoothed back his thick, sandy hair. Even though it was messy, it still looked great.

  She folded her arms. “Since when do you ride motorcycles?”

  “It’s the same as riding a dirt bike.”

  “I know, but when did you get one?”

  After lowering the kickstand, he swung his leg over the bike’s seat and sat on it sideways. “A couple of months ago. I saved all summer for it.”

  “I thought you only worked at Leo’s for the girls. I didn’t realize there was an actual point.” Logan was a waiter at the local steak house; she loved the free burgers.

  He shrugged. “I’ve got depth.”

  Claire laughed. “Since when?”

  Logan was a ladies man and a jokester who never seemed to worry about anything. Sometimes she wished she had his life.

  Logan glanced away, his eyes serious.

  “So what are you doing out here?” she asked.

  “Had to get out of the house.”

  She nodded, understanding. Logan didn’t talk much about his home life. In fact, she’d only met his parents a few times in all the years she’d known him. According to Logan they were private people, who were only happy around each other.

  He stood up and moved over to her. “How’ve you been doing?”

  “Living the dream in Bandon, Oregon.” She forced a smile. It had been almost two weeks since she stumbled into that dead girl, but she still couldn’t sleep without a night-light.

  Logan touched her lightly on the arm. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

  She nodded and moved back a step. “So I was thinking of going to the beach for awhile. Want to come?”

  “Um, I don’t know. I can’t be gone long.” He looked toward the road, then back to her. “Wait here for a minute? I have to go inside and get some things.”

  “Sure.”

  “Cool.” He dashed inside.

  She leaned against the van and quietly sang her band’s latest song. For the first time, Kate had written the lyrics and surprisingly, Claire liked them. On the other side of her van she heard a car pull up, but she ignored it while she tapped against the metal door.

  “Hey,” a voice said.

  She turned her head and immediately straightened when she saw who it was. Ethan stood on the sidewalk wearing a black t-shirt and dark jeans. Since that day she’d cried all over him, he hadn’t talked to her, but that didn’t surprise her. Why would one random event make them friends again?

  “Hey,” she said.

  Ethan stepped off the sidewalk, closer to her. “I have something for you.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out her cell phone. The one she’d dropped in the girl’s locker room. The police had kept it because it was “evidence.” Evidence of what, she didn’t know.

  She took it from him. “How’d you get it?”

  “Yesterday I was visiting the police station, and I overheard Smith saying they were done with it, so I told him I’d take it to you.”

  “Is that what you do for fun? Visit police stations?”

  He chuckled. “The school counselor thought it would be a good career choice for me.”

  “Not you. You’re going to get out of Bandon and do something bigger with your life. Cure cancer or something.” Claire didn’t look at him. Instead she turned the phone over in her hand. “So I guess I’m not a suspect anymore.”

  “You never were.”

  “Sure felt that way. Do they know what happened yet?”

  He shook his head and looked toward the ocean. “They lifted a bunch of prints from the light switch, but it didn’t match anyone in their records.”

  “Did you know her?” She couldn’t say her name.

  Ethan’s blue eyes returned to hers. “No. But a few of my friends did. They went to her funeral on Tuesday.”

  She looked down at the ground, her heart pounding. She hated funerals.

  “How are you doing?” he asked.

  “Fine.” She kicked a pebble across the pavement.

  “You’re lying.”

  Her head snapped up. “What?”

  “No one would be fine after seeing that. You don’t need to act like it doesn’t bother you.”

  Surprised by his insight, she said nothing.

  “Cool bike. Whose is it?” he asked.

  “Logan’s. He’s inside.”

  He stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked toward the store. “Have you eaten yet? I’m starving.”

  She tried not to stumble back. Was he asking her out? “Um, I might be going to the beach with Logan.”

  Just then Logan walked out with an armful of junk food. He stopped when he saw Ethan.

  “Hungry much?” Claire asked him.

  He looked down at the food. “A little. What are you guys doing?”

  “I was admiring your bike,” Ethan said. “You ride?”

  “Mostly dirt bikes, but I just got this.”

  “Nice. So you guys going to the beach?” Ethan asked.

  Claire’s eyes met Logan’s.

  “Yes,” Logan said. “We are.”

  Ethan returned to the sidewalk. “Have fun then.” He turned to Claire. “See you around?”

  “Yeah. Sure. And thanks for the phone.”

  He smiled and disappeared into the store.

  “What was that all about?” Logan asked. He ripped open a candy bar and took a bite.

  “I think he asked me out. Weird, huh?”

  “Really?” Logan offered her a licorice rope. “But you guys don’t even speak to each other.”

  “Exactly.” She accepted the licorice and walked toward the beach. “I don’t think this month can get any crazier.”

  But just then Logan took hold of her hand.

  The next morning, Claire woke with a screaming headache. She’d laid awake until almost three in the morning, thinking about Logan’s odd behavior at the beach. After he tried to hold her hand, he continued to hit on her until she finally said she had to go. They’d been friends forever, but not once had he ever tried to put the moves on her. Maybe a combination of the sunset, pristine beach, and calm ocean waters had gotten to him, and he’d had a soap opera moment.

  Whatever the reason, she hoped it didn’t happen again. It’s not that she didn’t find Logan attractive, she did, but she couldn’t be with a guy when she knew the details of all of his previous love conquests. It was gross.

  Claire quickly, yet quietly, dr
essed for school in jeans and a red tank top. Her mother had fallen asleep on the couch and waking her would be like waking a bear out of early hibernation. She sent Kate a text to remind her to pick her up and then snuck into the kitchen for a bowl of cereal. Just to be sure the bear slept peacefully, she ate outside on the back porch.

  Early morning sunlight wove its way through the tops of the trees and onto their faded redwood deck. She and her father had painted it over five years ago and although it was in desperate need of another coat of paint, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Too many bad memories.

  She took another bite of cereal and rubbed her foot against a curled-up sliver of wood. While watching the movement of her foot, she became vaguely aware of something out of place, but it took a moment for her brain to process the abnormality. Finally, she stood up and looked around.

  All over the deck were muddy footprints from what looked like big tennis shoes – not her size or her mothers. She followed the prints off the deck and into the back yard, which was basically a forest. After trailing them for about twenty yards, she stopped and turned around. They probably belonged to one of her mother’s many male interests.

  Claire followed them back to the house, but froze when she realized the footprints took a detour and ended at her bedroom window. Her heart began to pound and she frantically looked around as if searching for an attacker. Not because of the crushed foliage beneath her window, but because of the mud smeared across the glass by what looked like five fingers.

  SIX

  Claire glanced around and then darted back inside, anxious to get out of the open. She considered showing her mom what she had found, but decided against it when she saw her mother sleeping, her hands tucked up under her chin. Her mom had had it rough. Claire didn’t blame her for anything, just pitied her.

  She reached out and smoothed back her mom’s graying hair. It didn’t used to have gray in it. It used to be shiny and dark like maple syrup. She could’ve been in a hair commercial, but then guilt and stress had killed it. Claire touched her own hair and moved away.